


Ten Thousand Words

by yourebrilliant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:11:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourebrilliant/pseuds/yourebrilliant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If one picture tells a thousand words, what story could ten of them tell?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was Potter who found it. He was cleaning out the detritus from the bottom of his trunk in preparation for leaving Privet Drive. He propped it up on the mantle of Grimmauld Place shortly after his arrival.

I barely noticed it when I moved in – when you’ve just defected from the ranks of a genocidal megalomaniac, you have rather more on your mind than the decor of your grudgingly offered sanctuary.

It wasn’t until months later that I looked at it properly. It was nothing special, just a school photo from our first year. A bunch of eleven-year-olds waving cheerfully in rows of identical robes. Undoubtedly mum would have a copy of it framed at home somewhere. Of course, she hadn’t left her bed since we arrived so it was somewhat difficult to ask.

It was some horrible time in the morning, when I saw it. We’d been locked up here for weeks; me, mum, and the Golden Trio. Members of the Order came and went, reporting on missions and having meetings, but we were the only constant occupants. They spent most of their time closeted in Potter and Weasley’s room, and I was focused on looking after mum, so our paths rarely crossed.

Having nowhere to be and nothing to do had knocked out my sleep patterns and, more and more, I’d found myself pacing the house in the middle of the night. It probably didn’t alleviate anyone’s suspicions of me, but I knew if I stayed in bed I’d go mental.

‘Don’t touch it!’ I whirled round; I hadn’t even realised there was someone else in the room. She was standing in the doorway, her hair wild from sleep, wearing huge fleecy pyjamas and holding a mug of something. ‘Please,’ she said, holding her hand out, ‘don’t touch it.’

I felt an insult rising in my throat – I even opened my mouth to say it – but, somehow, what came out was a deep, tired sigh. After weeks of near-silence, having someone to talk to suddenly seemed so much more important than winning a fight with Granger.

‘It’s okay,’ I said reassuringly. ‘I was just looking.’ I stepped back, holding my hands up to show I didn’t have my wand.

She watched me for a moment and then, just as I was beginning to think I should make an excuse and head for bed, she took a step towards me, gesturing to the photo with her mug. ‘We all look so innocent there, don’t we?’ she commented, smiling fondly. I looked back at the picture. She was standing bang in the middle, her hair completely uncontrollable, smiling nervously, her eyes full of an eagerness to learn. It must have been taken before she became friends with Potter and Weasley; they were off to one side of the row, swapping chocolate frog cards and waving absently at the camera.

‘Well, except me,’ I responded, pointing out the perfectly gelled little Draco smirking arrogantly from the front row.

‘No,’ she said quietly, pointing to the sparkle in little Draco’s eyes, ‘even you.’

There was a moment of silence where I looked at her and she smiled at our younger selves. Then she turned that smile on me and hefted her mug again. ‘Cocoa?’

‘What?’ I asked, staring down at her.

‘It’s a warm drink,’ she explained, gesturing to the odd pale brown liquid in her mug. ‘It always helps when I can’t sleep.’

‘Oh,’ I said, not sure why she was sharing this information.

She frowned at me for a moment and I wondered what I’d said wrong. ‘Right,’ she murmured eventually, ‘stupid question.’ She turned to leave and I realised what she meant.

‘Yes,’ I said quickly. She turned back, looking like she wasn’t sure whether to be surprised or angry. ‘Yes, I’d like some cocoa,’ I elaborated, and she smiled again.

‘Here,’ she said, holding the mug out to me. ‘You can have mine and I’ll make some more.’

She didn’t offer it as a test, and I didn’t take it to prove a point, but when I took the mug from her hand and followed her into the kitchen, I knew something important had just occurred.  



	2. Chapter 2

It was the Potters – the dead Potters, of all people – who’d given her the idea, she said. Whenever she saw Potter flicking through that photo album Dumbledore gave him, she started thinking about what she would leave behind if she died in the war. So she made one of her own.

She brought it down one night, when we ended up in the kitchen again killing time until the cocoa warmed. It was thick, and packed with shots from the last few years. I was surprised to see that they were all wizard photos – even the ones taken outside school. She’d just shrugged when I asked, said her father bought her the camera the first time they went to Diagon Alley and she got into the habit of using it. A quick Freezing Charm worked wonders when she wanted to show the pictures to her Muggle friends and relatives.

As we flicked through the album, she pointed out who everyone was. Mostly it was pictures of her ‘boys’ – playing chess or exploding snap, inventing tragic predictions for divination, laughing like idiots at their own jokes – but there were action shots from Quidditch matches, landscapes of the castle, random photos of the Great Hall at breakfast with everyone huddled over their eggs trying to wake up.

There were even some pictures of her. Some of them were posed; there seemed to be one for every year on the Hogwarts Express, growing from just the three of them to include Luna, Neville, Ginny, and others, but there were some where she clearly hadn’t realised there was a photo being taken. Two stood out; she’d gotten them both from that annoying little creep Creevey, she said, when I asked how she’d managed to get pictures she hadn’t taken. The first was at the Yule Ball; she was dancing with Krum, smiling up at him with her dress flaring as he twirled her around.

The other picture made me worry about Creevey; the fact that he’d been there and taken it definitely showed stalker tendencies. It was from third year; Potter, Weasley and Granger were facing off against myself, Crabbe and Goyle. There was pointing and shouting and then she suddenly stepped forward and slapped me in the face. When I saw it, I raised my hand instinctively; that slap had hurt. When she saw it, she did something I never imagined she’d do in my presence; she laughed. As soon as her photo self stepped up and smacked my photo self, she burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her hands to keep from disturbing our sleeping housemates.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, putting a hand on my arm in apology. I wondered if she realised it was the first time she’d touched me without anger behind it. ‘I’m not laughing at you,’ she added quietly. ‘I just can’t believe I did it. I’d never slapped anybody before,’ she chuckled again, ‘I’ve never slapped anybody since.’

‘I feel so special,’ I drawled, softening my harsh words with half a smile.

She grinned back at me. ‘You made me so angry,’ she added. She looked at me oddly for a moment. ‘You haven’t done that for a while,’ she commented quietly. It was true, when I thought about it, we still exchanged opinions but I’d stopped picking fights with her.

Still laughing, she got up to pour our cocoa out, and I went to turn the page away from the slapping incident. As I reached for the page, I noticed something in the Yule Ball picture; me. I was standing off to one side, my arms crossed over my dress robes, and I was...watching Granger. Just standing and watching her dance.

She returned before I could take it in, setting the mug in front of me and gesturing for me to turn the page. She was still smiling when she sat down, and as she started telling me the story of the next photo, she shuffled her seat closer to mine.


	3. Chapter 3

  
‘Murdered by a gold-digger wife,’ Hermione suggested.

I rolled my eyes. ‘Hermione, it was a pureblood marriage; she’d be as rich as he was.’

‘Not if her family had fallen on hard times and her only choice was to marry this git,’ she responded, gesturing to the painting.

Harry and Ron were out on a mission again - having finally convinced the Order to let them help - which left Hermione – who had agreed to stay out of danger only after much shouting and threatened hexings – and myself – who was quite glad to stay out of sight since there was a price on my head – kicking about Grimmauld Place. When Hermione’s endless sighing and frowning had become in danger of driving me mad, I’d suggested checking out the attic to distract her. Everyone knows the most interesting things in a pureblood house are hidden in the attic.

‘Tragic broomstick accident,’ I declared, after a moment.

Hermione snorted. ‘He’s far to fat to get on a broomstick.’

‘That’s why it was tragic,’ I responded. ‘He was a Quidditch whiz in his youth, and then, years later, he was showing off to his children and his broomstick broke, catapulting him tragically to his death.’ Hermione was trying to suppress a fit of giggles by this stage, and I could feel the corners of my own mouth turning up. We’d discovered this painting in one of the dark corners of the attic. The painting could move but not speak, so we deduced that it had been put up here while awaiting repairs, and had been forgotten. Since the occupant couldn’t _tell_ us, we’d been occupying ourselves by guessing the means of his demise.

‘Bumped off by his family to hide the shame of his forbidden love for their…’she was pausing for breath in between her laughter, ‘house…elf,’ she gasped.

I grimaced. ‘ _Hermione!_ ’ I cried, covering my eyes in pain. ‘That’s disgusting! I’ll never get that image out of my brain!’ For all my genuine disgust at the thought, I could feel myself beginning to laugh. Peeking through my fingers, I asked, ‘Female house elf, or male?’

Hermione was laughing so hard she couldn’t speak. She was clutching her stomach, and gasping for breath, and the sight of it, combined with the conversation, was so funny that I couldn’t hold back the laughter any more. _Composure be damned_ , I thought as I burst out laughing.

When our laughter finally subsided, she collapsed next to me on the floor, leaning companionably against my shoulder, and smiling at me.

‘That’s the first time I’ve heard you really laugh,’ she commented quietly.

‘And?’ I asked, suddenly tense with worry at what she would say.

‘You’ve got a nice laugh,’ she commented, leaning her head sleepily against my shoulder. Tentatively, I slid an arm around her waist, and she wriggled closer to me. She sighed quietly, a gust of breath drifting across my cheek. ‘Oh, all that laughing has made me tired,’ she muttered.

‘You could…go to sleep, if you want,’ I murmured, daringly stroking my fingers along her waist and marvelling that she trusted me this much.

‘Will you still be here when I wake up?’ she asked quietly.

‘Yes,’ I murmured, hoping it was the right response.

‘Okay,’ she said, making herself more comfortable, and closing her eyes.

I sat there for two hours, just listening to her soft, even breathing. When she woke, we went downstairs to find that Harry and Ron had returned from their mission. They watched me suspiciously when we appeared together from upstairs, but Hermione just thanked me and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek.

Before I could say anything, she hustled her boys away in case they tried to hex me, leaving me to stand in the hallway, touching my cheek and wondering what had just happened.  



	4. Chapter 4

  
I blame it on Potter and Weasley, but then, I would. Sometime after the “attic incident” they decided that, even if I couldn’t go out on missions, I should be doing _something_ to help the Order. Privately, I agreed with them; weeks of inactivity were starting to take their toll, and the guilt of lounging around while they risked their lives was beginning to overwhelm. Even Hermione was contributing; she was usually researching something or other while they were away. So, when they needed a potion brewed, they insisted I do it and I put up only a token resistance.

Leaving me installed in the kitchen with all the potion ingredients of their combined supplies, a beat-up cauldron, and the book of instructions, they swanned off on another mission.

When the instructions got to “leave it to simmer for thirty minutes” I slid off my stool and went in search of something to pass the time. Given the limited number of inhabitants in this house – and the fact that only one of those inhabitants was speaking to me – this led me, inevitably, to Hermione. She was in the living room, researching something as usual, when I wandered through. Or, rather, she _had_ been researching something and had gotten side-tracked by some intriguing and arcane piece of magic. By the time she had explained it to me, and we have both mastered performing it, the potion had been simmering for forty-five minutes. Giving a shamefully undignified squawk of alarm, I ran through to the kitchen, just in time for the potion to explode over both me and my one pair of robes.

Despite our combined proficiency with a wand, neither Hermione nor I could remove the potion from my robes. After fifteen minutes of trying every cleaning spell we could think of, Hermione declared the robes a lost cause. Which raised the interesting question of what I was going to wear. At the end of an extended session of thinking, during which Hermione nearly nibbled a layer of skin off her bottom lip, she dispatched me to take a shower, promising to have something for me to wear when I was finished.

When I saw what was waiting for me, I stormed down the hall to find her. ‘No, Hermione,’ I said, standing in her bedroom doorway, waving the offending items in the air. ‘Just, no.’

I expected her to fight me on it, to stand up to me and demand I wear them. To respond at least, but she just sat there, her eyes wide, looking straight at me with a startled expression on her face. Looking down, I realised I was still wet from the shower, and wearing only a towel.

Cheeks burning, I strode out of her room and put on Potter’s cast-offs quicker than I’ve ever dressed before. She had composed herself somewhat by the time I returned. She smiled at the sight of me in Muggle clothes and hustled me out into the garden, insisting on taking a photo of me. I tried to scowl at her, but she was smiling so widely that I’m smirking a little in the photo. Shortly afterwards, I insisted on returning to the potion. This time I watched it for every second of the thirty minutes, and whipped it off the heat at the exact moment it was done.

When the photos were processed, she got two copies and presented one to me. For her, it was proof that I had once worn jeans. For me, it was a record of the day I made Hermione Granger speechless.  



	5. Chapter 5

  
Potter, Weasley, and I do not get along. For me, it wasn’t an opinion, it was a fact. A law of nature, if you will. But, as Hermione insisted on pointing out to me, even laws can change.

‘We’ve got nothing in common,’ I pointed out. The boys were actually in the house for once, and Hermione was trying to convince me to come down and talk to them rather than hiding up in my room as usual.

‘What about Quidditch?’ she demanded, hands on hips.

‘We support different teams,’ I retorted.

‘So?’ she asked. We were standing out in the hallway, our voices hushed so the boys in the kitchen wouldn’t hear us. ‘Harry and Ron support different teams, doesn’t stop them talking about it for hours.’

‘You’re trying to get rid of me,’ I decided, opting for distraction tactics since I had no come-back to her blasted logic.

Her whole manner softened. ‘Draco,’ she said quietly. ‘Of course I’m not trying to get rid of you. But, wouldn’t it be nice if we could all sit together?’ Potter and Weasley hadn’t interfered in our friendship -- I suspected Hermione had told them it was none of their business, since neither of them has ever shown an ounce of sensitivity in the past –- but they made it quite clear that they didn’t approve. ‘Anyway,’ she said suddenly. ‘You must be getting tired of only having a girl to talk to.’

‘That’s not true,’ I lied. Not that I didn’t love spending time with Hermione, but there were conversations that, apparently, only guys can have.

‘Look,’ she said, flat out ignoring my lie. ‘Go in there and say something about Quidditch. I bet you a Galleon you three will be laughing and talking by the time I can go upstairs and come back down again.’

‘Fine,’ I said, snarkily. ‘Remember to put that Galleon on my grave when the two of them hex me to death.’

Hermione rolled her eyes. ‘Just get in there.’

I don’t remember now what I said, something about the Keeper of the Cannons, or the Wronski Feint, or the best make of snitch, all I remember is waiting, in the silence that followed, to discover who would win the Galleon. Then, suddenly, Potter said, ‘Exactly!’ and Weasley nodded knowingly, and I was part of the conversation.

I didn’t even know she’d taken the photo till she presented it to me. I’m sitting at the little kitchen table with Weasley sitting opposite me, his arms wild and face as red as his hair as he demonstrates something enthusiastically. Potter’s sitting beside me, the two of us laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe, and Potter’s had to grab onto my shoulder to stop himself falling off his chair.

I should get rid of it, I know; it could easily be used as blackmail, but I can’t. I looked so happy -- we all looked so happy -- in the middle of one of the darkest times of our lives. Besides, I couldn’t throw away the note Hermione left on the back.

_Draco,_

Proof that I’m always right.

Hx

P.S. You owe me a Galleon.

Come to think of it, I still do.  



	6. Chapter 6

  
She waited ‘til the end, which I suppose I can only be grateful for. Waited to see the world saved, to see me free of that crazy bastard. Waited until I could give her a proper funeral. And then, she stroked my hair, kissed my cheek, told me to be happy, and went. Narcissa Black always did know how to make an exit.

For once, I was glad of all the years I’d spent guarding myself. I slipped back into the role of the Ice Prince with worrying ease, freezing my heart, my emotions, my tears, so I could get through the funeral.

I knew Hermione wanted to touch me. She wanted to hold my hand like she would with her boys, support and anchor me, but I knew if she took my hand I would fall apart. So I thrust my hands in my pockets and kept them there. She seemed to get the message, or maybe she was hurt by my actions, and she kept her distance throughout the funeral.

When we’d thrown our roses into the grave, Hermione came over and said everyone was heading home. In her eyes I saw what she really meant. _If you want to stay; if you need more time, I’ll wait with you._ I shook my head. I’d already said my goodbyes to my mother, this was the execution of duty, and now it was over. She nodded quietly and we _Apparated_ back Grimmauld Place.

Ignoring the mourners gathering in the living room, I went straight to my room when we returned, making my way past the measly pile of possessions Narcissa had managed to grab before we ran from the Manor. Some part of me registered that the Ministry was releasing the Manor back to me soon and I should start preparing to leave. No one had said anything, but this wasn’t the Headquarters of the Order now, it was Potter’s home, and I had almost outstayed my welcome.

She left me to wallow for about half an hour before she came to check on me. I was sitting at the desk, my case open on the bed, staring at a photo I’d never seen before.

‘Draco?’ she asked, stepping up to the desk. I heard her voice, but I couldn’t remember how to reply. Hesitantly she reached out and touched my shoulder, and suddenly I started to speak.

‘She must have grabbed it before we left,’ I said, showing her the picture. It was quite old, taken by a relative presumably since all three of us are in the photo. Lucius is standing with his arm around Narcissa, both of them smiling at the tiny Draco zipping about on a broomstick. On the back it says _Draco’s First Broom, Third Birthday._

Hermione smiled at the photo. ‘You all look so happy,’ she said quietly.  
I nodded, staring out the window. ‘I don’t remember it,’ I said quietly. ‘A moment so important to her that she brought it with her when her life was in danger, and I don’t remember it.’

‘Draco,’ Hermione said anxiously, ‘you were _three_ , you can’t beat yourself up because you don’t remember what happened when you were _three_.’

I didn’t notice that I’d started to shake my head until a bit of hair flicked into my eyes. ‘What else don’t I know?’ I asked, voicing the question that had been haunting me since I found the photo amongst her possessions. ‘What else will never be remembered about her, because I never asked?’

She moved closer, carefully setting the photo back onto the desk. ‘Draco,’ she said seriously. ‘You are not alone here. The burden of memory doesn’t fall solely on you. What about Andromeda? What about Lucius’s relatives? Narcissa’s friends? All those people who attended her funeral remember things about her. I think you should come downstairs,’ she said. Potter had offered to hold the gathering since I was essentially homeless for the next few days. ‘You can all remember her together,’ she added quietly.

‘In a minute,’ I said, still staring at the photo. ‘Just another minute.’ I was embarrassed to hear my voice shake, to feel tears form in my eyes. And then she’d gathered me to her, holding me tight and letting me cry into her shoulder. When there were no tears left, she got a wet cloth from the bathroom and held it to my eyes, waiting there with me. When I walked into the living room, she was holding my hand.  



	7. Chapter 7

  
I don’t know who took the photo – although I imagine I can rule out the bride – but it doesn’t really matter. What I _do_ know is that it never made it into the wedding album. I’m not a Slytherin for nothing.

 

It was the first time I’d seen everyone since I left Grimmauld Place, which sounds tragic and dramatic but in reality was decidedly ordinary. I left Potter’s house a week after mother’s funeral, and Potter and the She-Weasel only managed to wait another month before the happy occasion.

I wasn’t planning to go – I’d been shocked enough to receive the invitation, no matter how well we now got along – but Hermione declared me her escort for the wedding, and then became immediately and selectively deaf. If I’d learned anything in my time with her, it was that it was impossible to argue with her. In the main this didn’t stop me from trying, but being in my House had taught me when to recognise a losing battle. So I cleaned up my dress robes, polished my dragon hide boots, and resigned myself to a full day and evening in the company of Gryffindors.

I didn’t see Hermione until she walked up the aisle. Her hair was sleek and neatly arranged in the same style she had worn for the Yule Ball, and a pale gold dress floated around her ankles. When she broke her dignified procession to wink as she passed me, I decided I had been a good influence on her.

I’m sure the ceremony was terribly moving and romantic, but I can’t say I listened to much of it. Then it was over, Potter and the Sh- _Ginny_ , I suppose, were bound by the Marriage Vow and we were released out into the sunshine. As the air filled with more pops than one of the bottles of champagne waiting for us at The Burrow, I leant against the great stone wall and waited for my date.

‘Hi,’ she smiled, hurrying over when she saw me. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement as she took my arm to lift me away from the wall. ‘Wasn’t it romantic?’ she enquired, preparing to Side-Along me to The Burrow.

‘Terribly,’ I drawled, hoping she wouldn’t ask further questions. She merely rolled her eyes and grabbed my hand, as I closed my eyes against the squeezing sensation particular to Side Along Apparition.

‘We’re back here,’ she said, as soon as we arrived, leading me to a table near the head table but slightly off to one side. Seeing the best man – Weasley, predictably – already seated at the head table, I frowned at her.

‘Shouldn’t you be up there?’ I asked, gesturing to the main table. She shrugged carelessly.

‘Traditionally,’ she admitted reluctantly, ‘that is the procedure. But I’m not leaving you alone with all these Gryffindors.’

‘Hermione,’ I said quietly, preparing to fight her on this. It was insane! It was...astounding. Her best friends were married and she was the maid of honour. This would never happen again and she was giving up her place at the table to sit with a _Malfoy_.

She smiled as she looked up at me, shaking her head slightly to warn me not to fight her on this. ‘It’s no big thing,’ she said casually. ‘I just don’t trust you not to hex Ron when he stands to give his speech.’

My eyes widened; I hadn’t even thought of that! She sighed. ‘And now I’m giving you ideas. Take a seat,’ she said, sweeping her skirts out as she settled herself next to me. I must have been staring at her, because she looked up and arched an eyebrow inquisitvely.

‘Gold is a good colour for you,’ I commented, turning back to watch the groom stand to give his speech before I let slip the admiration I was feeling for her at that moment.

 

The rest of the evening passed in a haze of speeches, dancing, and far too much champagne. I managed to avoid riling the groom, mostly because I didn’t see him much, and Hermione’s sneaky acquisition of my wand negated any possibility of entertaining myself with some of the more amusing hexes in my repertoire. Hence the drinking.

 

The Potters were on their honeymoon when the photos from the wedding were processed. Knowing this in advance, I had taken the precaution of manouvering them into “convincing” me to collect the photos for them. Gryffindors really are ridiculously easy to manipulate; it’s not even a challenge.

Making sure I was alone when I collected them, I Apparated back to the Manor to undertake some damage control; filtering out any incriminating or unflattering pictures of me.

It was one of the later photos, after all the gushy speeches and cake cutting, when everyone was more than a bit tipsy. I stared at it for a good few minutes when I found it. It was Hermione and I, in the middle of a dance I don’t remember being conned into. I’m holding her close and she has her arms around my neck. We’re talking and laughing, leaning close as we sway to the music. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I distinctly saw a moment – captured forever – when my eyes stray to Hermione’s lips, before I spin her out in a twirl.

Was I thinking of kissing her? It was a question that wedged itself in my brain for quite a while. Somehow, when the few pictures of me yawning at the speeches, and one of me caught with a particularly unattractive expression on my face, were obliterated with a quick spell, it escaped the conflagration. Instead it ended up in the top drawer of my dresser with the other photos I hadn’t brought myself to destroy. Except when I took it out to watch the dance, and wonder what I had been thinking when I looked at her like that.  



	8. Chapter 8

It happened before I ever asked her out. Frankly I wasn’t intending for it to happen at all. Personally I blame that evil wedding photo. And Hermione of course, who ignores me entirely whenever I bring it up. Which isn’t that often of late.

Sometime after Potter’s wedding, Hermione obviously came to the conclusion that I wasn’t planning on socialising much with my friends-of-necessity. That I was, in fact, planning on retreating to the Manor and sulking amongst my ancestors and wealth. I hadn’t realised that to become friends with Hermione was to hand over the right to make one’s own decisions. Or rather, I had, having seen how she was with Potter and Weasley, I just assumed it would never happen to me.

After weeks of owled invitations for various events, beginning in an encouraging and coaxing tone and progressing to demands for my attendance and threats on my life, I was accustomed to the sight of Hermione’s owl tapping on my window over breakfast. I let the beast in, gesturing it towards the slice of bacon I had prepared for it as I read her missive. It followed the usual lines; she invited me to her house for lunch and if I declined she would track me down and employ a number of inventive and extensively detailed hexes in recompense. Ignoring her threats, as usual, I turned the paper over and reached for my quill, ready to write my reply and send it with the owl which was still waiting beside my breakfast. As soon as my inked quill made contact with the paper, however, I felt a familiar tug at my navel and the world went briefly dark.

When my sight cleared again, I found myself in the middle of a neat, cosy living room. I had just concluded that that evil witch had charmed her letter to become a Portkey as soon as I applied ink to the parchment, when the witch in question appeared in the living room doorway bundled in a warm jacket and woollen mittens.

‘Draco!’ she beamed. ‘Just in time.’

‘A _Portkey?_ ’ was all I could find to say. ‘You charmed a _letter_ to be a _Portkey?_ ’ I could feel my blood pressure rising.

She sighed, as she wound her school scarf around her neck. ‘Well you were being so obstinate,’ she explained. ‘I knew you’d never suspect anything and you weren’t going to come of your own volition.’

‘Because I wanted to be left alone!’ I yelled, attempting to hold onto my anger to avoid giving way to the admiration I was feeling. She was damned sneaky.

She tutted. ‘You wanted to wallow in self-pity,’ she corrected.

‘And?’ I asked sharply. ‘Isn’t that my decision?’ Oh, I was so naive to still believe this of _Hermione._

‘No,’ she said baldly. ‘You have friends now, proper friends, who worry about you. We’re not going to let you moulder away in that big house out of some misplaced guilt.’

‘ _Misplaced?_ ’ I was sure there was a vein throbbing in my forehead.

Reaching into a pocket she pulled out a woollen hat in matching Gryffindor red and plonked it on top of her wild curls. ‘Yes, Draco. You,’ she began, approaching me with her index finger pointing. ‘Chose to leave Voldemort’s side. You,’ she poked me in the chest. ‘Assisted the Order of the Phoenix. _You_ ,’ she poked me again, ‘have _nothing_ to be guilty about.’

I could only stare at her in awe. ‘You have wards up don’t you?’

She blinked at me. ‘What?’

‘Anti-Apparition wards,’ I clarified. ‘On your house.’

She laughed in genuine amusement. ‘Trying to disappear, were you?’ she asked. ‘Yes, I have wards up. The only place _you’re_ going, Draco Malfoy, is my back garden.’

I watched her for a moment. ‘Why weren’t you in Slytherin?’

Instead of making some negative comment about my house, she just tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and shrugged. ‘I could have been,’ she commented, starting to head for the back door. ‘You should transfigure those robes,’ she advised over her shoulder. ‘It’s cold out.’

Absent-mindedly waving my wand to transfigure my robes into a more masculine version of the fleece lined garment she was currently wearing, I followed her into the hall. ‘What d’you mean “I could have been”?’

She paused at the back door. ‘The Sorting Hat gave me a choice,’ she said calmly. ‘I could have chosen any of the houses, actually. Cunning enough for Slytherin, loyal enough for Hufflepuff, smart enough for Ravenclaw, courageous enough for Gryffindor.’

‘And you chose Gryffindor?’ I asked in disbelief.

‘Well, I’d been reading-’

‘Hogwarts: A History,’ I interjected, she didn’t even need to read the thing anymore; she had it memorised.

She ignored me and continued, ‘and I liked the sound of Gryffindor more than the others.’

I shook my head. ‘And they call you the smartest witch of our age.’

She made a face at me and reached for the door knob. ‘ _This_ ,’ she said, opening the door, ‘is why I invited you over today.’

She was so petite that I could see the garden clearly over the top of her head. It was snowing. Not just gentle flakes that barely lie and melt in an hour, this was a proper snowfall. There were already a couple of inches on the ground, and more coming down by the second. It was beautiful.

‘For _snow_?’ I drawled, sneering down at her until I saw her face.  
Hermione was convulsed with laughter.

‘What?’ I asked sharply.

She mastered her giggles slightly. ‘That’ll work better when you can hide the delight in your eyes,’ she advised archly.

I huffed irritably. ‘Fine, I love snow,’ I admitted reluctantly.

‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘Come on!’ She grabbed my hand and dragged me out into the garden.

For the rest of the day, as we constructed the world’s best snowman, I made a vain attempt to maintain my usual disaffected demeanour, but Hermione started laughing every time I tried, so I gave it up in the end. We ate our lunch – soup and sandwiches – on Hermione’s back porch, huddled together on the steps for space and warmth, and then returned to our snowman in the afternoon.

Finally, when it was completed to our satisfaction, Hermione ran inside and fetched her camera, insisting on taking a photo of the two of us with the snowman. How she charmed it to work on a timer, I never asked. Instead, I just stood there, grinning like an idiot at the camera, as the evidence of our hard work brandished his branch-wand and Hermione waved cheerily.

It was late by the time I left, full of hot chocolate and an exceptionally well cooked dinner. As she walked me to the front door, Hermione asked the question I’d been expecting since I announced my intention to return home. ‘So, we’ll see you at the next event, right?’

I regarded her as I opened the door; her cheeks were still pink from the kitchen heat, and she was wearing one of those dreadful Weasley jumpers. Her hair was wild and her eyes were bright; she looked adorable. Deceptively so, I realised. ‘Do I have a choice?’ I asked archly.

‘Of course,’ she said, in shocked tones. ‘You can choose to come of your own volition or you can choose to come by unexpected Portkey,’ she added, her smile becoming decidedly more sly as she smirked up at me.

This is why it’s Hermione’s fault. If only she had continued with standard Gryffindor stubbornness, I could’ve ignored her; I could’ve been angry at her interference and persistence. Instead she had done the one thing that Slytherins find most attractive in a woman; she had out-manoeuvred me. So, I kissed her. I was still holding the door half open when I did it. She was standing close to me, her face tipped up, her eyes sparkling with smug delight, completely unaware. I could feel her smiling when I kissed her; she was smiling even more when I finished.

‘Well?’ she asked, as I opened the door and walked to the end of her front path.

‘We’ll see,’ I smirked, winking at her as I stepped outside the wards and Apparated.

She gave me the photo when I arrived at Potter’s for dinner a week later. I hadn’t seen her since the snow day, but I had been thinking about her a lot, and I took the opportunity of our brief privacy to ask her a question that had been plaguing me since the kiss.

‘Hermione,’ I whispered, holding her arm to stop her heading further into the house.

‘Yes?’ she asked, peering at me anxiously.

I swallowed compulsively, wondering how she could make the Prince of Slytherin so damned nervous. ‘About that kiss...’

She bit her lip. ‘Look,’ she started quietly, ‘it’s okay, I-’

‘Will you go out with me?’ I asked quickly, before she could assure me that she would forget the incident.

Her eyes were wide as she stared at me. ‘What?’

I cleared my throat. ‘Hermione, would you do me the honour of accompanying me to dinner sometime?’ I said, managing to claw back some dignity.

She smirked up at me. Smirking? What did smirking mean?

‘Well?’ I asked.

She winked as she turned to go through to dinner. ‘We’ll see,’ she said.  



	9. Chapter 9

  
This may be my favourite photo of all, and so it should be since I risked my life to take it.

It’s important to understand that Slytherins have a different interpretation of the term “friend” from Gryffindors. This wasn’t exactly the first time the differences had been highlighted, but it was probably the most dramatic.

Hermione and I - meaning Hermione - had decided that dinner at the Potters was the best time to let our friends know that we’d been dating for the last three months. In preparation for this, Hermione fretted and tried to anticipate her friends’ likely reactions. I took a slightly more productive approach.

Slytherins are taught from day one – _year_ one if you’re a Malfoy – always have the upper hand. In this situation, that meant having some dirt on those assembled. I didn’t tell Hermione what I was doing – her Gryffindor morals get me in trouble over the simplest things – but I was so comfortably arrogant that day that I brought Hermione’s camera to capture their reactions.

The Potters were very welcoming when we arrived, although I spotted a flash of suspicion in Mrs Potter’s eyes when we both arrived together, and gestured us into the house. They offered to take our coats and gloves etc, but we’d decided – Hermione taking my advice for once – to tell everyone before we divested ourselves of our outer clothes so we’d at least be warm if we had to leg it past the wards.

‘Hang on, Ginny,’ Hermione said, keeping a hold of her scarf as Ginny reached out to take it, ‘we’ve got something to tell you first.’ I distinctly saw Ginny’s eyes widen at the “we”. She really is too smart to be with Potter, who had noticed nothing and was smiling warmly.

‘Of course, Hermione,’ he said, ‘Ron’s already here,’ he added, assuming her news included the third member of the Golden Trio.

‘Right,’ Hermione said, swallowing nervously. She looked up at me and I winked lazily. Hermione frowned at me, wondering why I was so calm, and made her way into the living room.

Ron was settled on one of the magically expanded couches, watching the All Quidditch Channel. He looked up at the sight of us entering together.

‘Hey ‘Mione,’ he called. ‘Malfoy,’ he added casually. Although Potter and I have established something between a Gryffindor friendship and a Slytherin friendship, Weasley and I are barely civil, and even then only when we’re talking about Quidditch.

‘Weasley,’ I responded.

‘What’s with the camera?’ he asked, being unusually perceptive.

‘I’m carrying it for a friend,’ I drawled. Hermione widened her eyes at me in silent warning.

‘Fine,’ Weasley sulked. ‘Don’t tell me.’

‘Ron,’ Hermione said, distracting him. ‘I-we-I’ve got something to tell you,’ she stuttered.

Ron looked confused, not surprisingly since it’s his default expression. ‘What is it?’ he asked, watching the nervously fidgeting Hermione.

Behind the cover of the high backed couch, I reached out and took her hand. She took a deep breath and turned back to Ron. ‘Ron,’ she said quietly, ‘Draco and I-’

She never got to finish; Weasley, showing a perceptiveness that was only amusing if you knew what I knew, leapt immediately to the right conclusion. ‘ _Malfoy?_ ’ he cried disbelievingly. ‘You’re going out with _Malfoy?_ ’

‘Hermione,’ Ginny said, coming further into the room, ‘is this true?

Hermione looked up at me and back at Ginny. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘We wanted to keep it secret until we were more secure about it,’ she explained.

Harry frowned at her. ‘How long?’ he asked.

Hermione winced. ‘Three months,’ she replied. Ron, who’d been mostly quiet up till now, made a sort of choking sound and we all looked over to see him turning as red as his hair.

‘Ron, breathe,’ Ginny said sharply.

Ron took a deep breath. ‘How could you do this?’ he asked, his arms flailing wildly as he began a tirade. Under the cover of the confusion, I dispatched my Patronus with a message. I thought I saw Potter looking around at the flash of silver, but my Patronus is quick, stealthy and relatively low to the ground. Besides, his best friend was on the verge of apoplexy. ‘A _Slytherin?_ ’ he yelled. ‘And _Malfoy_ of all people!’ I examined my robes, lifting a loose thread from my sleeve, since Weasley seemed to be in no danger of finishing anytime soon. ‘I can’t believe this, Hermione,’ he yelled, ‘I can’t believe you would do this!’

Hermione looked on the verge of tears, and I was wondering if I would have to step in before my plan could be put into action, when suddenly there was a voice in the hallway that made Weasley freeze with shock.

‘Ron?’ the very cultured, very female voice called. ‘Are you here, lovey?’ she asked. I clenched my teeth to keep from laughing at the look on Ron’s face.

All four of them turned – I didn’t have to since I knew who was there – to gawp at the slender, raven haired woman in the doorway.

‘Oh, there you are,’ she said happily, appearing oblivious to the drama she was causing.

‘ _Pans?_ ’ Weasley finally managed to choke out. Hermione’s head whipped back to the, now white, Gryffindor. ‘What are you doing here?’

Pansy Parkinson shrugged, her shiny black hair swishing silkily with the movement. ‘I thought I’d come and say hello,’ she said calmly. ‘Since I’m going to be part of the family,’ she added, holding up her left hand for everyone to see the diamond ring sparkling on her wedding finger. I was quite glad for the explosion of noise at that moment, since I briefly lost control and let out a snort of laughter.

‘You’re _engaged?_ ’ Ginny asked. ‘And you didn’t tell us?’

‘You dirty hypocrite!’ Hermione shouted at him, letting go of my hand to gesture angrily.

‘ _Pansy!_ ’ Ron cried glaring at her, ‘I thought we were going to wait to tell them!’

‘It’s been six months!’ Pansy yelled back.

‘ _Six months!_ ’ Harry cried. ‘I thought we were friends, Ron? Why would keep me out of this?’ I rolled my eyes; Potter was such a woman sometimes.

‘I was waiting for the right moment!’ Ron shouted, the colour returning to his face with a vengeance.

‘And when would that be?’ Pansy asked sarcastically. ‘At the birth of our first child?’ she added, placing a hand on her stomach.

Weasley looked like his eyes were going to pop out of his head, I had to grip the sofa to stop from laughing; tears were beginning to form in my eyes.

‘You’re _pregnant?_ ’ he screeched.

Ginny looked furious. ‘ _You knocked her up?_ ’ she cried. ‘You realise mum’s going to kill you?’

Pansy took the opportunity of Ginny’s rant to wink quickly at me. Unfortunately she wasn’t quick enough. Ron caught the wink and turned on me. ‘You,’ he growled. ‘This is _your_ fault!’

‘Ron!’ Hermione cried. ‘You can’t blame this on Draco!’

‘Well,’ I drawled. ‘Maybe a little bit.’

Ron launched himself from the couch, to be immediately caught by Potter. He’s not a professional seeker for his pretty face; well, not _just_ for his pretty face.

‘Malfoy, run,’ Potter called, trying to hold back the struggling Weasley.  
Taking a potentially fatal second, I lifted the camera, snapped off a quick shot and then legged it for the perimeter of the Potters’ home.

Sometime later, I heard the front door of the Manor swing shut, and the dulcet tones of my beloved drifted up the stairs.

‘MALFOY! GET YOUR ARSE DOWN HERE!’

Like angels singing, isn’t it?

‘Yes, dearest?’ I asked, appearing at the top of the stairs and beginning to make my way down; slowly, in case she was in a hexing mood. I scrutinised her as I descended, but she seemed more tired than angry, so I ventured to ask, ‘How did it go?’

She rolled her eyes at me. ‘Better after you left,’ she admitted, pushing wild hair out of her eyes. ‘We got Ron to stop shouting long enough for Pansy to admit that she _wasn’t_ pregnant, which at least made Ginny stop yelling. Harry and Ginny were sceptical at first, but they’re okay with us now.’

‘Why?’ I asked, seeing that she was keeping something from me.

‘I told them you make me happy,’ she said, looking away.

Reaching forward, I tipped her chin up and kissed her. ‘You make me happy, too,’ I said quietly. She smiled. ‘And Ron?’ I asked.

She smirked. ‘He’s still mad,’ she admitted. ‘But he can’t really say anything given his relationship with Pansy. How _did_ you find out about that, by the way?’

‘Me?’ I asked, affecting offence. ‘Why would you just assume-’

‘Draco you basically admitted that you orchestrated it,’ she interrupted.

‘Fine,’ I said quickly. ‘It was a bit of an accident, actually,’ I admitted. ‘I went to see Pans to find some gossip on Weasley and the Potters; Pans knows everything about everyone,’ I explained. ‘And it turned out she was in a bit of snit already because Weasley had failed to inform his family of his upcoming nuptials for, what I understand, was the second _month_ since their engagement.’

Hermione’s eyes widened. ‘No wonder she was happy to get involved. So, was that all?’ Hermione asked suspiciously.

‘All what?’ I asked, eyes wide with false innocence.

‘All the gossip,’ she clarified. ‘Did you get something on Harry and Ginny or was it just Ron and Pansy?’

I laughed and smirked at her. ‘Oh, Granger,’ I replied. ‘Wouldn’t you just love to know.’

Hermione narrowed her eyes at me. ‘I would, actually,’ she commented.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘you can’t. First rule of Slytherin, _give no secret where there is no reward._ ’

Hermione snorted. ‘You made that up,’ she accused. I merely raised an eyebrow. ‘Reward, eh?’ she said, after a moment. ‘Can’t be money, ‘cause you’ve got lots…’

I frowned at her, she was standing awfully close, and the thinking face worried me. ‘There’s no point in trying, Granger,’ I said quickly. ‘I am unbreakable.’

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say. She stepped even closer and wrapped her arms around my waist. ‘Oh good,’ she said softly, ‘I do like a challenge.’

I’d love to say I remained unbreakable, but there are some things a man just can’t be expected to endure. So, Hermione learned the secrets I had gained about the Potters. The Potters learned about one of them when it became useful, but I’m still saving the other.

The photo went into my photo drawer as soon as it was processed, and every time I look at it, I can’t help but laugh. Weasley is an interesting shade of almost-purple, struggling like a wild animal against Potter on one arm, and Ginny and Pans on the other. Ginny and Pans are alternating between shouting at Ron and chatting between themselves, and Hermione is standing in front of Ron with her hands out, talking quickly and trying to hold him back long enough for me to escape. It is, as I say, possibly my favourite photo.  



	10. Chapter 10

I knew exactly when Hermione woke up that morning. I was in another room at the time so I didn’t hear the buzzing of her alarm clock, but there was no disguising her desperate grunts as she tried to kill the clock, which would now be dancing out of her reach. I smirked; she’d thought it was such a good idea at the time. Then I remembered my own “good idea at the time” and hoped it was a better idea than the dancing alarm clock.

The grunts stopped, and there was the sound of Hermione groaning as she surfaced from under her mound of sleep-tousled hair and flung back the covers.

‘Draco?’ I could hear her calling, when she realised I wasn’t beside her.

‘Hermione!’ No it wasn’t me. I had charmed a photo to activate when she said my name. ‘Hermione! Over here!’ it called.

‘What the?’ she whispered. ‘Draco? What happened? Are you stuck?’

‘Hermione!’ it said again. ‘Look over there!’ I didn’t need to see it – it was me who charmed it after all – to know that it was now pointing along the wall to another photograph. This one wasn’t charmed – if you knew how complicated it was to charm the first one! It was just a regular wizard photo. A shot of me, holding up a piece of cardboard with some words on it. I don’t think I really need to write what the card said. Oh. Hermione says I do. Fine, the first card said:

_Hermione, don’t be scared. I’m fine, but you know how I am_

And then the photo switched to a second piece of card:

_with expressions of emotion, and there’s something I wanted to say._

At the bottom of the second piece of card there was an arrow, pointing her further along the wall. I could picture her frowning as she shuffled along the wall - Hermione doesn’t actually _walk_ until she’s had her first cup of coffee – to look at the next photo.

_So many strange things have happened in my_

_life, but I think the best thing to happen was you._

I winced at the open sentimentality of the words on those cards. Trying not to think about the huge risk I was taking with this, I leaned back to try and see her expression. The photos were edging her closer to the living room, where I was hiding behind the couch. She was chewing on her lip, reading the cards held by the next photo.

_You’ve changed me, shaped me, and given me_

_friends I can count on, and a future to strive for._

I could see her better now. She was moving along to the second last photo, her hands held over her mouth as she read the words on the penultimate picture.

_I want to share that future with you._

_I want to love you every day. Forever._

There was no arrow to the final picture, but she couldn’t really miss it. I’d had it blown up to an enormous size, and stuck it to the wall next to her; conveniently, the wall opposite the couch. Seeing her looking at it, I slid my wand around the couch, and deactivated the freezing charm.

_Hermione Granger,_

_Will you marry me?_

She gasped, her hands over her heart now, as she stared at the words in front of her.

‘Well?’ I asked, my heart in my mouth. She spun round to where I had stepped out from behind the couch to kneel behind her, an engagement ring held up. ‘Will you, Hermione?’

She looked down at me, nearly nibbling her lip _off_ as she tried to hold back the tears. Finally she drew in a shaky breath and started nodding her head. ‘Yes,’ she managed. ‘Of course!’ she cried, flinging herself on the floor to wrap her arms around me, holding me close. I buried my face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the smell of her hair and trying to steady my own uneven breathing.

Well, that’s the end of the story, or, well, the middle of the story. We were married six months later, just a simple ceremony. Hermione had Ginny as her Maid of Honour, and she never lets me forget that I _chose_ Potter as my Best Man. I try not to think about it too much. Hermione has the rest of the proposal photos in her own photo album. The huge one, she managed to attach to our bedroom wall with a Permanent Sticking charm. Over a year after we moved in to the Manor, I’m starting get used to the sight of it. After all, sickening as it is, it resulted in the best moment of my life.

Ron and Pansy were married not long after the incident at the Potters. Whether it was woman’s intuition or just a bad case of karma, Pansy actually _was_ pregnant, which hurried things along slightly.

Hermione is about half-way through her first pregnancy, which makes her cranky occasionally, but which will, at least, give the upcoming addition to the Potter brood someone to play with. After that? I don’t know. But what I _do_ know is that my photo album has plenty more pages to fill.  



End file.
